


Fall in love (And it hurts so bad)

by dezemberzarin



Series: I Lived Verse [6]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezemberzarin/pseuds/dezemberzarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not a bad person.” </p>
<p>Mario stares at him. “Thanks?” He didn’t mean for it to sound like a question and Lewy shakes his head, his eyes intent. </p>
<p>“I’m serious, Mario.” </p>
<p>“Lewy, I don’t-“ </p>
<p>“You have to stop acting like you’ve committed some huge crime. If they want to be mad at you, that’s their issue.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall in love (And it hurts so bad)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we go, next part all ready to publish. I gotta say I'm kind of proud of myself for getting these out in a timely manner, I'm on a roll right now! And a huge part of that is thanks to the incredible feedback you keep leaving for me, you honestly have no idea how thankful I am and how much of a help that is <3 Because I suck I only managed to reply to your comments on the last chapter today, so let me just take this opportunity here to thank you again, because you are all incredible <3
> 
> I'm pretty nervous about his part since it's incredibly Mario-centric, but the next installment will focus heavily on Marco, so there's that. Just to let you know, there will be two more installments after this one, though I'm guessing the last one will be twice as long as usual. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it <3

Mario has always thought that he’s experienced a good deal of heartbreak in his life, even at just twenty-one years old. He was heartbroken the day his parents told him they would move away from Memmingen and everything he ever knew and loved. He was heartbroken when Alex took advantage of him and blamed Mario for it afterwards. He was heartbroken when he got the injury that would sideline him for more than half of the season and had him watch his team win both the Bundesliga and the DFB-Pokal without him. He was heartbroken when he fell in love with Marco, knowing full well he was making a mistake.

But none of these things even compare to what he’s feeling now. It’s been four days since their victory over Malaga, four days filled with therapy for his aching ankle and Mario is perversely glad for the injury. At least the physical ache is a distraction from everything else. He informed the club management about his transfer a couple of days ago, flanked by Volker and having to fight to look all of them in the eye as he told them he was leaving. 

Kloppo’s reaction still turns his stomach whenever he thinks about it, so Mario tries hard not to. The sheer disappointment as his coach took in the news, the way he regarded Mario afterwards, like he was a completely different person, had hurt. His parents are doing their best to be supportive, but Mario knows they’re uneasy with the decision he’s made and he can’t explain to them why he had to, why there was no other way but the one he’s chosen. 

Marco hasn’t called. With everything going on, this is still the one thing that hurts the most. Four days since he told him and his best friend hasn’t talked to him since. Mario picked up the phone more than a dozen times, staring at the screen and trying to come up with anything that might bring Marco to forgive him for his betrayal. But there’s nothing he can say. His actual reasons are nothing Marco can ever know about and as for the rest…there’s little use in repeating things he’s already told him.

Absurdly enough, Mario thinks it would be easier if he felt even the slightest uncertainty about whether what he’s doing is the right thing. If he were unsure about his decision, wavering in the move he’s making, all the doubt he’s facing from everyone else might be easier to handle. At least he could share in it. But he knows now, more than ever, that this is what he needs to do. 

He didn’t, until he told Marco. In the last couple of months doubt has been the one thing in Mario’s mind, his constant companion even as the talks with Bayern moved forward and the transfer became a reality instead of a possibility. It was part of the reason why he didn’t tell Marco, even though there were plenty of opportunities. 

There were even times when Mario wanted nothing but to scream the truth in his best friend’s face, the first of them right after he called Volker and asked him to get in contact with Munich. Seeing Marco in the same clothes he’d worn at the club the next morning, the thought of him being with one of the girls from the night before made Mario want to hurt him, reveal his own plans to his best friend and watch him being the one left behind instead of Mario. But he hadn’t and the relief after he realized that Marco never went anywhere but Mats’ flat that night was also born of the knowledge that his secret was still safe. 

In Berlin, he came so close to telling Marco that even hours after his best friend went to sleep, Mario was still staring at the ceiling, his heartbeat too quick and loud in his ears. Then, with Marco’s warm and naked body curled against his own, Mario’s doubts were heavier than ever and he was close to getting in touch Volker, ask him to call the whole thing off. He knows now what a mistake that would have been. 

Because when the circumstances finally forced him to confess to Marco, tell him before he found out from someone else and lost any trust in Mario, there was a moment. Marco looked at him and his words made Mario freeze, his heart jump into his throat as he uttered them. _What about us?_ His best friend said it so unguardedly, so obviously _hurt_ by Mario’s news and for a moment Mario thought _maybe_. For a moment hope was burning so bright in his chest that it could have lit a bonfire and it only extinguished when Marco continued, talking about their careers and playing together, so obviously unaware that he nearly made Mario think the impossible. 

Mario knew then. Even at the cost of so much else, his move to Bayern is the right thing to do. Because if he stays, that tiny little flame of hope will never go away, not entirely. Mario _knows_ himself, knows his heart and its tendency to overrule his head, even when it’s the stupid thing to do. As long as he’s around Marco, as long as they continue this thing between them, he won’t be able to stop hoping, not even with the knowledge that he’s being a fool. And he’ll be disappointed time and time again. 

Mario knows he won’t be able to live through that. It would destroy him and it would destroy his friendship with Marco. Because eventually Mario would start blaming him, even while realizing that he wasn’t being fair to his best friend. And that couldn’t happen. Marco has been nothing but honest with him from the start. It’s Mario who made things what they are now and so he needs to go, needs to get out before he does something that their friendship won’t be able to recover from.

It still hurts though. God, does it ever. Taking his stuff from Marco’s flat, leaving his key behind was almost more than he was able to handle and he broke down once he was safely back at his parents’ house, locking himself into his bathroom and crying into the hoodie he stole from Marco’s closet, muffling his sobs in the soft, worn fabric. He’s pulled himself together since then, allowing himself no more than that one outbreak and trying hard to keep his composure in front of his family as to not alert them to the fact that this transfer is anything but good news for him. 

He’s glad they’re not here right now. Mario doesn’t think he’d be able to put on a very good show. Today is the day he’ll have to tell the team. Kloppo insisted on it, adamant that none of his players would find out right before their upcoming matches, especially the semifinals against Real Madrid. Mario even agrees with him, but it doesn’t make the prospect of the team finding out any easier to bear. He barely slept last night, waking with his heart beating hard in his chest and his shirt clinging sweat-damp to his back, unvoiced nightmares at the back of his mind. 

It won’t be harder than telling Marco was, nothing could be really, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. Mario has been part of this team for four years and he joined them when he was only seventeen, still a kid in so many ways. They became his friends, his only ones really, since Mario never forged lasting relationships at school with all his extracurricular involvement in football. They’re what he knows and he’s going to leave them behind now, abandon them for their immediate rival club.

Some of them won’t take it well, Mario realizes. Just the thought of Kevin’s reaction makes the spoonful of muesli stick in the back of his throat. Even though he sat down more than an hour ago, unable to sleep for maybe the first time in his life, he isn’t even close to finishing his breakfast. Not even the knowledge that Kloppo will yell at him for having no energy in training is helping. It’s a good thing his mother can’t see him poke through his bowl, or Mario would never be able to convince her that he’s fine.

The house is eerily quiet, his parents and brothers already out and about and the sound of the doorbell ringing is loud enough to make him jump, stomach tightening. For a second, Mario considers simply staying right where he is and ignoring it, but Felix said something about a package arriving for him today and even though it’s a bit early for mail, he doesn’t think he’ll be up to deal with his little brother’s ire tonight, if he’s wrong. Not when everyone else in his life will already be angry with him by then. 

He drops the spoon into his bowl and gets up from the kitchen table, padding through the hallway on socked feet and trying to catch a glimpse through the milky glass panels in the front door. Whoever is out there is out of sight though and Mario sighs, brushing crumbs off his hoodie before he opens the door. And promptly almost takes a step back in shock.

“Hi.” Marco’s voice is raspy and Mario can only stare at him, heart caught in his throat. “Can I come in?” 

Mario nods dumbly, stepping aside automatically to allow Marco to slip into the house, closing the door behind him. His mind has stuttered to a halt as he takes in the sight of his best friend for the first time in days. While he was working on his ankle in physiotherapy, Mario had caught a few glimpses from afar, but not like this, Marco only three feet from him, the sight of him almost a shock to the system. 

He looks _awful_. There are shadows beneath Marco’s eyes that tell Mario he’s not the only one having trouble sleeping and the stubble on his face is out of control, his hair looking like he’s combed it back with his fingers instead of undergoing the careful styling routine Mario likes to make fun of him for. He’s wearing track pants and his black Borussia hoodie and they make him look even paler than usual, almost ghostly in the dim light of the hallway. 

Mario can’t take his eyes off him and Marco is staring right back, the silence between them so heavy it’s almost tangible. Then, just as Mario thinks he can’t take another second of this and wants to break the stillness, Marco opens his arms. 

Mario closes the distance between them before he can even think about it, throwing himself at Marco and burying his face in his chest as his best friend’s arms come up around him, hold him tight. He clutches at the back of Marco’s hoodie, fisting his hands into the thick soft material and holding on for dear life, tears stinging in his eyes as relief and gratefulness rip through him like a tidal wave. Marco is here. After all Mario has said and done in the past few days, Marco is still here and Mario hasn’t realized until now how certain he was that his best friend was already lost to him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Marco, I’m so sorry.” He realizes he’s babbling, can’t stop it, the words tumbling from his mouth almost of their own volition. 

“Shhhh, it’s okay. I know,” Marco says and Mario stifles a sob against his chest, because of course. Of course Marco would forgive him, even when Mario can’t forgive himself. 

“I should have told you sooner, I was such a coward, I-“ 

“Shhhh, calm down. I know, okay? I know. It’s fine. Just take a deep breath,” Marco murmurs, hand coming up to rub circles against Mario’s back, soothing and firm. “I was an asshole, too. Some of the things I said-” 

And God, Mario can’t handle him taking part of the blame, not when he’s fucked up so immensely. He tries to control his breathing, but his voice still comes out ragged. “Just, don’t. You had every reason to. Telling you like that was fucked up.” 

Marco’s grip on him tightens and Mario relishes in it even as the breath is being squeezed from him. “There never would have been a right moment, Sunny.” 

“I know,” Mario whispers. “I’m sorry.” 

Marco takes a harsh breath, his short, joyless laugh a rumble against Mario’s ear. “Me, too.” 

There’s nothing more to say after that and Mario just holds on, the comfort he draws from Marco’s arms around him too great to give up just then, even knowing he will have to eventually. He doesn’t know how long it is until they separate and there’s an awkward moment when Marco raises a hand to cup his cheek, dropping it as a quick flash of embarrassment crosses his face. 

Mario tries to ignore the sting in his chest as he smiles at him. They both know this thing between them is over and Mario is glad, so incredibly glad that he still has his best friend, after all of it. He’ll learn to live without the rest of it somehow, as long as Marco is going to stay in his life. Anything else would be ungrateful. 

“We should probably get going,” Marco says softly and Mario nods, forcing himself to give him another smile. 

“Go ahead. I’ll be out in five.” 

It takes him a bit longer than that and the amused glance Marco throws him when he slides into the passenger seat of the Range Rover is so familiar that Mario automatically says “Oh, shut up.” as Marco snorts, starting the engine. 

“Punctuality is a virtue.” 

“So is patience,” Mario shoots back immediately and for a beat, everything is so achingly _normal_ that Mario’s stomach drops when the feeling fades. Nothing is normal anymore. 

“I meant what I said in there, you know,” Marco says and Mario glances over to see him cling to the steering wheel, eyes determinedly fixed ahead. “I’m sorry for how I reacted before. If this is what you want, then I’m happy for you.” 

It’s so obviously a lie that Mario is filled with a rush of fondness for him. “Thanks,” he says softly and just in time remembers not to put his hand on Marco’s knee. “I’m going to tell the others today.” 

“Oh.” Marco is silent for a moment. “I guess they’ll have to find out sometime, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Mario mutters, stomach cramping at the thought of what’s waiting for him at the training center.

Marco throws him a quick sideway glance. “It’s going to be okay,” he promises and Mario nods mechanically, staring out the windshield with unseeing eyes. 

“Sure. It’ll be fine.” 

*

It’s really not. Mario thought he prepared for his teammates’ reaction, he certainly spent enough sleepless nights in the past weeks obsessing over it, but the reality is…different and so much worse than anything he imagined. He insisted on breaking the news himself, but Kloppo is there and gives a quick speech afterwards, going on about unity and concentrating on the important things ahead, which is the Champion’s League semifinal. Mario has a hard time listening, since he’s busy taking in his friends’ shell-shocked expressions. 

He prepared for anger and disappointment, but the utter disbelief he’s faced with is so much worse, the silence in the locker room deafening around them. Kevin is the first to move, stalking out and slamming the door behind himself forcefully. Neven and Ilkay hurry after him, Ilkay throwing Mario an apologetic glance as he slips out of the locker room. At the same time Kehli hurries forward to put an arm around Mario, patting his back and assuring him that they all wish him the best. Seeing his teammates’ blank expressions, Mario doesn’t think their captain really knows what he’s talking about. 

In their defense, most of them try after the initial shock wears off, coming forward to hug and congratulate him. But it seems strained and some of them don’t even bother to hide their apprehension, especially his friends. Mats pulls him aside as soon as he gets a chance and Mario motions for Marco, who has been hovering the entire time, to go ahead.

“Are you sure about this?” Mats asks quietly once they’re alone and he doesn’t sound upset so much as…confused. 

Mario sighs. “Yeah, pretty much.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you, but-“ Mats hesitates. 

Mario frowns. “What?” 

Mats looks around, takes a step closer to him and when he speaks his voice is hushed to a whisper. “What about Marco? I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I kind of got the impression the two of you were…you know.” 

Mario swallows, fighting to keep a calm expression. In the back of his head, he’s always aware that Mats knows about his sexuality, the only one of his teammates apart from Marco who does. But they’ve never actually talked about it, apart from that very first conversation. And so far Mats has never shown any indication that he knows about Marco and him. It’s hard to stay calm and fight his ingrained response of denying everything. If he does that, it sure as hell won’t get Mats off his back.

“We were,” he admits. “But it’s not serious.” Oh, what a lie. As if there has ever been a relationship in his life that was more important to him than Marco. But this is necessary. He needs to convince Mats, because he can’t deal with his friend’s doubt, not when he’s finally managed to control his own. “It’s over. With the transfer and all.” 

“And you’re okay with that?” Mats asks, his eyes unsure as he looks at him. 

Mario forces a smile. “Yeah. I really want his, you know?” That at least isn’t a lie and maybe it’s the quiet truth in those words that convince Mats, because his friend finally smiles back, albeit a bit subdued. 

“Hey, as long as you’re sure,” he says, pulling Mario into a quick hug. “Now, let’s get a move on before Kloppo comes to get us.”

They get out onto the training pitch in time and the day continues as usual, but the atmosphere is off and it’s even worse since no one seems to wants to acknowledge it. Ilkay tries to throw in some jokes to lighten the mood, but they fall flat and afterwards everyone is even more on edge. Kevin and Neven simply ignore Mario, Kevin going so far as not to exchange a single word with him even though they’re in the same training group. It sucks, but Mario kind of expected this from his friend, knows how much their club means to Kevin. 

In the end, Nuri’s reaction is by far the worst that day. His friend waits until they’re done with tactical, most of the guys either heading to get some food or to shower. Nuri grabs his sleeve and motions towards the balls and kits still strewn around the pitch and Mario heads after him to start cleaning up. They do this sometimes, either to help out the coaching team or to indulge their own nostalgia for when they still had to do most of the picking up after themselves in the youth league. 

Nuri waits until everyone else is out of earshot before he turns on Mario and when he does, his face is a picture of unhappiness. “What the hell are you doing, Mar?” 

“Cleaning up,” Mario says lightly, kicking the ball he was about to pick up in Nuri’s direction. Instead of stopping it, it bounces off his shins as his friend doesn’t move. Jesus. So much for trying to lighten the mood. “Fuck, Nuri. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that you’re not going! Why would you even consider this? You have everything you need here!”

Mario’s temper flares. “That’s rich, coming from you.” He bites down on his tongue, keeping himself from saying anything more than that. Nuri’s move to Madrid is a delicate subject between them. 

Nuri was the first real friend he made on the squad when he joined. The older boy took him under his wing in a way, knowing exactly how hard it was to make the transfer from the youth squads to the professionals. When Nuri’s transfer came about Mario was devastated and although they kept in touch while Nuri was in Spain, it wasn’t the same. Over time, Mario got closer with other guys on the team and when Nuri returned last year, Marco was already part of the squad. Even though Mario and Nuri reconnected during the year, their friendship isn’t quite what it used to be these days. 

That hurt is in Nuri’s voice now and Mario hates himself for bringing it up. “Exactly. My transfer was a mistake. Why do you think I’m telling you not to do this? BVB is our family, Mario. It won’t be the same in Munich. Trust me, I’ve tried and it’s just not worth it.”

“It’s not the same.” Mario stuffs the last of the balls into the net at his feet, yanking on the line to zip it shut. 

“It is!” Nuri cries. “You think you’ll get nearly as much playtime there? You think they’ll give a shit about you, if you don’t immediately get results? Do you honestly want to sit on the bench and watch Robben and Ribéry play for the next two years?” 

“That’s not going to happen,” Mario snaps, now honestly pissed off. He tries to rein in his temper, knowing it won’t do any good, but failing. 

“You don’t know that!” Nuri retorts. “It’s exactly what happened to me!” 

“Well, I’m not you!” Mario yells, flinching as he sees the expression on Nuri’s face, like he slapped him. “I’m sorry. Nuri-“ 

But Nuri is already turning away and stalking off, leaving Mario standing there with half their equipment and a feeling of guilt that’s like lead in his stomach. He sighs, raising his eyes to the grey sky that’s mirroring his mood right now. At least the next few days can’t be any worse than today. 

*

It turns out that he’s wrong about that. Even though their training routine quickly keeps them from worrying about anything but the upcoming match against Madrid, the strained atmosphere doesn’t really dissipate. Kevin still isn’t talking to Mario and Nuri has joined him, but Mario has himself to blame for that one. Most of the other guys try to go back to acting normal around him, but their interactions are off, although Mario doesn’t know whether he’s projecting his own discomfort or actually picking up on theirs. Regardless, he’s tense nearly all the time, fumbling easy exercises in training and withdrawing from the team in an effort to ease the tension. 

It’s Lewy who finally puts an end to that as things come to a head. Neven makes a snide offhand remark about money-chasing in the locker room and there’s some uncomfortable chuckles as Mario turns away, ready to ignore all of it and simply go about changing and then getting the hell out of there. A loud slam has him turning back around just in time to see Lewy, drawn up to his impressive height in front of Neven, looking more furious than Mario has ever seen him. 

“Shut your fucking mouth.” 

Neven stares at Lewy in confusion, gaze flicking over his shoulder to Mario, a flicker of guilt on his face. “What?” 

“You fucking heard me. Either shut the fuck up, or the two of us are going to have a problem. Am I making myself clear?” 

“Lewy-“ Mario starts, but his friend silences him with a glare. 

“Are we clear?” he repeats, turning back towards Neven, who nods reluctantly. 

Lewy whirls around to stalk out of the locker room, grabbing Mario’s arm as he passes him. “Come on.” 

Mario figures resistance would be rather futile and follows him out onto one of the benches set out to oversee the training grounds, the wood warmed by the sun as they sit down. The pitch is filled with three or four training groups, more than sixty teenagers chasing around on the grass overseen by their coaches. It’s oddly calming to watch them and Mario startles a bit when Lewy speaks, almost surprised that he’s still there.

“You’re not a bad person.” 

Mario stares at him. “Thanks?” He didn’t mean for it to sound like a question and Lewy shakes his head, his eyes intent. 

“I’m serious, Mario.” 

“Lewy, I don’t-“ 

“You have to stop acting like you’ve committed some huge crime. If they want to be mad at you, that’s their issue.” 

Mario swallows looking away. It’s some time before he can speak again. “I’m not going because of the money. That’s not why I- I mean that’s not the reason.” 

Lewy just shakes his head and he looks almost sad. “Mario, this is what I’m trying to tell you. It doesn’t matter. Even if you were going because of the money, that still would be _your_ decision to make. You’re transferring to another club, it’s not the end of the world.” 

“Kind of feels like it,” Mario mutters, scuffing his sneakers against the ground. 

“Well, I’m telling you, it’s not. Have you ever, even once, not given everything for this club, this team?” 

Mario shakes his head mutely and Lewy nods. “Exactly. That’s all you can do. That’s all you owe them. Fuck anyone who thinks otherwise. You are not a bad person for wanting this.”

Mario’s eyes feel too warm all of a sudden and he blinks, staring straight ahead so Lewy can’t see how much his words affect him. He didn’t even realize how much he needed someone to tell him this and he’s insanely grateful to his friend, even though he knows that Lewy has his own reasons for being a bit touchy when it comes to the topic of Bayern Munich and a possible transfer. Still, his friend’s unquestioning support is like a balm on the open wound everyone’s reaction has opened. 

Marco is waiting for them when they return to the locker room, raising his head to gaze at them with the concerned expression that hasn’t entirely left his face at any point in the last couple of days. Mario gives him a weak smile and watches some of the tension drain from his best friend’s shoulders as he gives Lewy a nod. “Ready to go?” he asks quietly and Mario nods, grabbing his own stuff from the bench in front of his locker. 

“Let’s go.” 

Marco has pretty much not left his side since he told the team, picking Mario up from his parents’ house in the mornings and dropping him off after training. Mario is so grateful for his presence and the silent support his best friend lends him in spite of his own feelings about this whole mess. But at the same time being with Marco is a constant reminder that things between them are not the same anymore, a painful awkwardness in their interactions as they ignore that the space their easy physical intimacy used to fill is lying broken and bleeding between them. 

It’s so much harder than Mario ever imagined and even though he knows that he should be grateful their friendship outlasted the mess their sexual relationship caused, the pain at what he lost is there every time he wants to reach out and touch Marco and realizes he can’t, every time his best friend drives him home directly after training instead of heading to his flat. 

Mario hasn’t been back there since the night he told Marco. It’s as if they silently agreed that it would be too weird, the place filled with memories of the two of them together. Mario misses it, misses Marco even as he’s sitting right next to him in the car, talking easily over the radio on the drive back. Everything has changed. It’s his own doing, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Mario is glad that their game against Madrid is in three days, is waiting for it with a feverish excitement that is even more pronounced than usual. Football is the one thing that still manages to take his mind off things, even now. Training isn’t the same, but he knows the second he’ll set foot on the pitch in Signal-Iduna everything else around him will just melt away, if only for ninety minutes. For once, the focus won’t be on him and Mario can’t wait. 

*

The news breaks on the eve of the game. Mario finds out when his twitter feed blows up and Volker calls minutes later, advising him in a tight voice to keep his mouth shut and let the clubs do all the talking for now as they do damage control. Apparently an English media outlet got news of the transfer via some shady channels, although at first word on the street is that Bayern leaked the news on purpose. For Mario, the source doesn’t really matter, since the result is pretty much the same. 

To say all hell breaks loose would be an understatement. It is the transfer bomb of the year, if not decade. The media reaction is out of control and only hours after the leak, BVB management calls to tell Mario he’s being placed under police protection. He thinks it’s a joke at first. Marco picks him up like always the next morning and drives a little faster when they pass the groups of fans in front of the gates at Brackel, the police car following them the entire time. The training grounds are closed off for the day, as a precaution. 

The day that follows is the most surreal thing Mario has ever known. The football world is going crazy with the transfer news and some of it reaches them like echoes of gunfire in their seclusion at Brackel. But for the most part, the training grounds are eerily quiet, no youth training taking place to give the team time and space to prepare for this all important game. They’re in the eye of the storm, preparing to walk out into a hurricane. 

There are upsides. The team gathers protectively around Mario almost instinctively and it would make him laugh, if he weren’t so touched by their support. Even the guys who were less than enthusiastic about his move grow defensive in the face of the media coverage and fan attacks on the social networks. Lewy rolls his eyes and nudges Mario’s side good-naturedly when he haltingly voices this thought in a low voice. 

“Well, it’s a team thing. We can talk shit about you, but God forbid someone else does. Don’t question it.” 

And he doesn’t. Kloppo bars their phones and by the time the afternoon rolls around, Mario’s mind is actually on the game ahead of them, concentration narrowing to a focal point that leaves room for nothing but football. When they walk onto the pitch hours later, his body feels like a live wire, the roar of the crowd and throb of his own blood loud in his ears, drowning out everything else. 

It never gets less insane passing by Real Madrid’s players for the line-up, Ronaldo just meters away from them, larger than life and looking almost fake he’s so familiar to Mario. He grew up watching some of these guys play, wanting to _be_ them and now they’re facing off for the chance to play the Champion’s League final. Mario walks across the pitch almost dazedly, accepting his teammates’ wishes of good luck, uttering words in return that he won’t be able to recall later. Only when Marco turns towards him does he manage to concentrate enough to meet his friend’s eyes, earning a tight smile. They hug, clutching onto each other tightly for a few moments. 

“Be brilliant.” It’s an old joke between them and Mario digs his fingers into Marco’s back, smiling into his shoulder. 

“I’ll try. You be great.” 

“I’ll do my best.“ 

And then the whistle blows and they’re off. Boy, they’re off. It’s immediately noticeable that they’ve caught Madrid on a bad day and they take advantage mercilessly, circulating the ball in their opponent’s half and attacking relentlessly. They’re only eight minutes in when Mario goes down the left-hand side and gets a perfect cross towards Lewy, who sinks the ball into the goal without a second thought. Ronaldo equalizes right before the break, but oddly enough none of them are even fazed as they head into the locker room, Kloppo swearing them in for the second half. 

They deliver. Marco gets the ball to Lewy and he gets the second goal in the fiftieth minute, the fans screaming themselves hoarse as they huddle together to celebrate. Only five minutes later the ball hits the back of Madrid’s net a third time, Lewy slamming it into the far corner after Schmelle passed to him perfectly. As if that weren’t enough, Lewy converts the penalty after Alonso brings Marco down hard and that is it. Their win against Real Madrid, a damning 4:1. Even seeing it on the scoreboard, Mario can’t quite believe it. 

The celebrations aren’t as excessive as after the Malaga game this time, but the fans make a good effort and over an hour passes until anyone is ready to shower. The return game in Madrid is in a week, but the sense of optimism in the locker room is palpable, a steady thrum of energy that seems to run through each and every one of them. They can do it; Mario can feel it in his bones. And wouldn’t that be the best parting gift? To win the Champion’s League for them and leave as a hero, instead of a traitor? 

*

The week in between their semi-final games robs Mario of any delusions he harbored about how his transfer is being perceived. He honestly thought he knew what he was in for, but the media attention and fan reaction is beyond anything he ever imagined. Traitor is the kindest term they bestow upon him and during their away game in Düsseldorf, his jersey is being burned on the stands. The team grimly sticks by him, Marco and Lewy flanking him practically everywhere he goes. Nuri comes up to him after the game and Mario waves his apology away as they awkwardly hug it out. Mario is glad that most of his relationships with his teammates are intact after all, even though Kevin still hasn’t exchanged a single word with him. 

Everyone knowing brings another kind of attention as well and Mario is incredibly confused at first when he gets a text message that reads vaguely like something an excited toddler might yell in his ear. 

_whyyy wouldn’t you tell us, man??? this is so awesome!!! we’re going to have so much fun, i’ll teach you all about celebrating Bavarian style_

Five minutes later his phone chimes with a text from Toni. 

_Dude, I gave Thomas your number, he might text you. Anyway, fucking A, so glad you’re finally with us!_

That clears things up. He gets messages from all the Bavarian guys from the National Team that day, Toni obviously passing his number around. The ones from Basti and Philipp are friendly but professionally restrained, while Jérôme’s is strict and to the point, just a thumbs up and a ‘See you in a few weeks’. The one that actually gets to Mario is from Manu. 

_Hey, Mario. Awesome news, really glad you’re with us from now. Everyone is excited, Mülli actually performed a jig when the news broke! Don’t pay attention to all the crap right now, it’ll pass. Trust me, I know. At least they actually want you here ;)_

Mario swallows, re-reading the text a couple of times, before shooting off a quick reply to thank Manu. He’s aware that his future teammate knows better than anyone what it’s like to have your own club’s supporters turn against you. Only for Manu, it didn’t stop when he got to Munich. 

As the days go by and the attention actually seems to increase instead of abate, Mario asks himself more than once, how on Earth Manu managed. It’s only been about a week for Mario and already he already thinks he’s at the limit of what he can stand. Marco finally confiscates his phone when he catches him reading comments on his own Facebook page again. When he hands it back to Mario hours later, his best friend is quiet and even paler than usual and Mario knows Marco didn’t heed his own advice. 

That night, Marco publishes a message on his own Facebook defending him and Mario thinks that if he weren’t already in love with him, that action surely would have done the job. The message is angry, emotional and so utterly _Marco_ that Mario’s throat closes up reading it. He really wishes he were a better friend, if only to deserve even a fraction of the loyalty Marco shows him again and again. 

His best friend must experience his own bouts of insomnia, because he picks up after only two rings when Mario calls him. “Mario? Is everything alright?” 

“I’m fine. Marco, your message-“ 

“I told you to stop going on Facebook, Sunny.” Marco actually sounds admonishing and Mario snorts a laugh through the tightness of his throat. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t listen.” 

“Obviously,” Marco says drily, then sighs. “I had to. The stuff some of them are saying…” 

“It’s fine,” Mario quickly says, because he can’t have Marco do this for him, too, not when Mario already owes him so much. Marco forgiving him is more than he deserves, but to have him apologizing for other peoples’ reaction is inconceivable. 

“No,” Marco says unhappily. “It’s really not. Stop reading that shit. Get some sleep. Our flight leaves early tomorrow and if you drool on me on the plane, I’ll kick your ass.” 

It’s a strained effort at levity, but Mario lets him have it, if only because he knows how little opportunity they had for lightness lately. “Please. I’m not the one who can’t take a nap without somehow getting incapable of normal air intake, you mouth breather.” 

There’s a second when he tenses, uncertain if his words edge to closely to what they never mention anymore, a hundred nights spent wrapped together, more than enough to learn each other’s sleeping habits. He relaxes once Marco snorts and calls him an unflattering name, safe in the knowledge that he sidestepped that particular mine field this time. Their friendship has become fraught with those lately, so many things that dredge up the differences in their interactions. 

“I’m serious, asshole, get some sleep. We can’t nail Madrid to the wall without you on you’re A game.” 

“Such flattery,” Mario deadpans. “Same goes for you by the way.” 

“I _was_ asleep until you called me.” 

“Liar.” 

“I’m hanging up now.” 

Mario snorts and disconnects the call, tossing the phone down next to his pillow as he crawls underneath the covers. He shuts off the lights and pulls the stolen sweater out from under his pillow, burying his face in it. If he closes his eyes and concentrates on nothing but the echoes of Marco’s voice in his head and the smell of him in the stolen garment, he can almost imagine his best friend is here with him, falling asleep right next to Mario. 

*

Two days later Mario’s Champion’s League campaign ends abruptly in the 14th minute of their game against Madrid. His thigh hurts like a motherfucker as he limps off the pitch, Kevin replacing him as the team struggles to match the intensity Real is bringing to the game. They scrape by in the end, Real only managing to score two goals, one less than they need to make up for their performance in the first game. After ninety minutes in Bernabeu, their dream has actually come true: they’re going to play the final in Wembley. 

The stakes couldn’t be higher with Bayern as their opponent. Bayern, who took every single title they set out to win this season so far and most of the guys are intent on revenge. For Mario, the whole thing is a nightmare, his transfer being picked apart in the barrage of media attention following the German clubs’ ascension to the most important game of club football. 

It turns out he didn’t have to worry, because against all expectations, his injury gets worse instead of better when they experiment with training four days before the final. He still travels to Wembley with the team, but he’s in the stands, watching his former and future club battle for the title he so desperately wanted to play for. He’s a spectator when Robben sweeps in at the last minute, going down the right-hand side and scoring the goal that any footballer would give their soul for. 

Kloppo tells them how proud he is afterwards, but the journey home is a nightmare, everyone quiet and withdrawn, nursing their wounds and dealing with the disappointment of a season that had them coming in at second place in every single competition. The fact that they played their best Champion’s League campaign in more than a decade suddenly feels meaningless in sight of that. 

Marco’s sadness is the worst for Mario to witness, especially since there’s nothing he can say to ease his friend’s mind. Mario won’t be there to help them win any of the titles back next season and he wasn’t even part of the team that lost in Wembley. The distance between him and the team has been thrown into sharp relief after his injury. 

Things get even worse after he gets back to Dortmund and the doctors determine that he will be out for a few months. This means his game in far off Spain was the last in Borussia’s colors and crest, any opportunity to say goodbye to the club and fans taken away by his injury. Despite knowing that he would not have been given a fond farewell in any case, the loss he feels when he realizes that he won’t ever bear his club’s colors again is worse than the pain from his injury.

And there’s another thing. Even though his contract won’t technically become valid for another month, Bayern wants his injury treated in Munich, by their own medical staff. Mario has been treated by Müller-Wohlfahrt before and trusts the man implicitly, but his goodbyes to his club and city suddenly aren’t a matter of weeks but days as Bayern urges him to get down to Munich. 

All of it is happening too fast as his parents hurry to finalize the contract for the flat he and Fabian are going to share and most of Mario’s belongings are carried off in boxes by a moving company. His last day at BVB is just _there_ all of a sudden, Mario limping around Brackel in a daze as he tries to get in his goodbyes to anyone who will let him. He goes to see his youth coaches and the grounds staff and by the time he gets around to the team, he’s already a wreck, though trying hard not to let it show. 

It’s a flurry of hugs and well wishes, Kloppo holding him for more than a minute and telling Mario how proud he is until both of them are near tears by the end of it. The guys give him a picture of the team they’ve all scribbled messages on and threaten to throw him into the pool one last time as a ceremonial goodbye, an idea which Ilkay and Nuri only reluctantly let go due to his injury. Marco sticks to him like a bur the entire time and Mario has to look away more than once, the enormity of the farewell still ahead of him threatening to overtake him.

Then it’s time and he takes one last detour to the locker room, more out of nostalgia than anything, since he cleaned his spaces out a couple of days ago. He startles when he sees that there’s actually something on the bench in front of his locker and when he stops to open the bag, his stomach clenches hard. There, neatly arranged in packets of four, is the godawful Gatorade Kevin and he started drinking after a memorable late-night journey back to Dortmund from a game with Schalke. 

They’d actually run out of energy drinks on the bus and Mario and Kevin made a run to a tiny store when they stopped for gas, carrying back gallons of the questionable liquid, which all of their teammates turned down when they offered it to them. It became their running gag, Kevin bringing one of those bottles to all the away games and swearing it was the reason they were winning all the time. 

Mario blinks hard against the prickle of tears in his eyes as he grabs one of the bottles and heads towards Kevin, who is standing off to the side, talking quietly to Ilkay. Mario uses the bottle to tap his friend on the shoulder and Kevin turns, a hesitant expression on his face as he takes him in. 

“Gatrix2000?” Mario croaks, knowing his voice is betraying all his emotions right now and not giving a single fuck. 

“Drink of winners,” Kevin replies immediately, not sounding much better. “I just figured you might need a few. Who knows whether those bastards sell this quality liquid down there.”

They stare at each other for a beat and then they’re hugging, Kevin muttering “God luck, you little shit.” into his ear as Mario is torn between laughter and crying, squeezing his friend back tightly. The other guys very kindly pretend they didn’t witness their hallmark moment once they let go again and Mario actually spends his last moments at Brackel happy, the relief that his friendship with Kevin survived his move lightening his mood. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t cry like a baby when he pulls out of the parking lot half an hour later, thankfully no one but him to witness his weakness as the buildings and grounds he spent half his childhood at fading in his rearview mirror. Marco promised to come help him pack up the last of his stuff tomorrow, but that particular goodbye is something Mario is not even ready to think about so he doesn’t, turning on the radio and driving home one last time, Dortmund’s rush hour a comforting nuisance around him. 

*

The following day is the last opportunity to see Marco for longer than Mario can bear to think about and he thought he planned it well, telling his best friend to come by after his mother took Felix to his weekend tournament. She’ll actually stay for the whole thing, since his little brother was the target of some rather unfriendly verbal attacks from the crowd in the wake of Mario’s announcement. The last few weeks were hard on his whole family, his father fielding a barrage of hateful email to his university account and his mother having to hose down their house’s walls more than once after a spray paint or egging attack. It’s cowardly, but Mario is actually glad to escape his home, if only because he won’t have to witness what his decision has wrought for his family. 

In any case, the plan was for Marco and him to pack up the rest of Mario’s stuff and move it to the car Mario and his dad will take down to Munich in the afternoon. Marco’s and his interactions have been limited to their drives to and from Brackel and the training center in the weeks following his confession, Mario is painfully aware. Their training schedule didn’t leave time for going out and neither Marco’s flat nor his parents’ place seemed like good options to hang out really. 

It was probably foolish to think that a few hours together would help to get rid of the awkwardness still lingering between them, but it doesn’t matter since Mario doesn’t get to find out. His dad, usually an island of calm, is freaking out about Mario’s approaching departure and is in and out of Mario’s room the entire time, bringing him stuff to pack and asking well-meant last-minute questions that drive Mario up the wall. Marco and he don’t really manage to hold a conversation for more than five minutes without his dad interrupting and by the end of it they don’t even try anymore, packing up Mario’s last books and clothes in silence, carrying it down to the car. 

Mario slams the trunk of the packed SUV with a silent sigh of relief and his stomach drops when he turns to see Marco standing there already pulling on his hoodie. “You want to stay for lunch? I don’t think we’ll leave before then.” 

Marco looks torn for a moment, but then he shakes his head. “I think I’m gonna head out now. You guys still have stuff to do here and I don’t want to be in the way.” 

Mario wants to tell him that he could never, not in a thousand years be in his way, but he sees Marco’s words for what they are and can’t blame him for wanting to get this over with. And as much as Mario wants to prolong the time they still have left, he doesn’t want their last moment together to happen with his dad watching over their shoulder. 

“Okay,” he says and his voice breaks a little on the word. “This is it I guess.” 

Marco nods, his face drawn, eyes not leaving Mario’s face. “Text me once you get there?” 

“Of course,” Mario agrees and they stare at each other for another painful beat before Marco steps forward and pulls him into a quick hug, letting go almost before Mario manages to get his own arms around him. 

“Drive safely.” Marco is already turning away, hiding his face and Mario lets him, unable to speak as he watches Marco walk to his car. Only when Marco is already inside and starting the engine does he move again, walking up to the driver’s window and rapping it softly with his knuckles before putting his hand on the glass. 

Marco doesn’t look at Mario, but he puts his own fingertips against the glass and for a moment their hands are each other’s shadowed mirror image. Then Marco guns the engine and the Aston slides away beneath Mario’s palm as it eases out onto the street. 

Mario keeps standing in the driveway long after Marco turns the street corner, staring at nothing as an emptiness he’s been trying desperately to stave off takes a hold of him, leaving him numb in its wake. 

*

When Mario thought about his move to Munich, it mostly involved what that meant for his relationships and situation in Dortmund. He just never really paused to consider what moving to a new club would entail, too busy fearing what it might destroy in the process. Even when he did take a moment to consider the implications, he didn’t really worry. His football education progressed rather unusually and in his early teenage years he changed teams so often his parents actually became worried, his progress going so much faster than that of his peers both in the BVB youth and the National Team squads. He never had trouble fitting into any of them. 

Only there’s no team for him to fit into when he arrives in Munich. His injury has him there earlier than anyone expected and he won’t join the actual team in their first training camp in Quatar after the summer break, his physical therapy grounding him in Munich instead. The first time Mario visits Säbener Straße, it’s just him and the youth teams and he feels completely out of place as the team manager shows him around the grounds, gaggles of teenaged boys whispering and pointing as he passes by them. 

Though the initial excitement dies down in the following days, Mario is still the only player from the professional team there, doing his physical therapy under the watchful eyes of Bayern’s medical staff and trying hard not to let his feeling of isolation show as he makes small talk with them. The media attention is relentless, every paper and news site filling the summer gap by reporting daily on his transfer and speculating about his career, motives and character. Bayern does a decent job of keeping him out of the spotlight, but Säbener is a focal point in a way Brackel never was, the navel of German club football in a way. Mario feels like an ant beneath a magnifying glass some days, asking for his brand new sponsor car to be delivered with tainted windows to escape the photographers lying in wait for him every time he enters and leaves the training center. 

Everyone tells him to stop reading what’s being written about him, but it’s hard when his only distraction these days are his physical therapy and returning to the three-bedroom flat that is still mostly empty, except for one armchair and a mattress in the bedroom he picked for himself, his boxes stacked against the walls, almost everything still packed. The apartment is beautiful and ideally located in one of Munich’s most popular neighborhoods, but the initial plan was to move in almost two months later, after some remodeling and furnishing had been done. 

Fabian actually offered to move in early as well, but Mario knows how much his older brother was looking forward to the backpacking trip he was planning with his friends and declined, assuring everyone in his family that he would be fine on his own for a while. He thought he would be back then. Only now the bare walls and empty rooms just serve to remind Mario what he gave up coming here, with his friends and family more than 300km away. 

Ann-Kathrin tries to wheedle him into buying furniture and finally unpacking, but Mario just can’t muster up any enthusiasm for the idea, not when Fabian and he made elaborate plans to go shopping for their first real apartment together. He retreats to the mattress in his bedroom at nights and lives out of three boxes that mostly contain his tracksuits and t-shirts. His laptop and phone are his constant companion and he watches episode after episode of old nineties shows when he’s not at Säbener for his physical therapy. 

His parents call every couple of days and he takes his laptop out on their balcony when they do, Munich’s skyline and summer breeze a suitable backdrop for the lies he’s spinning for them. In his version, everything is going fantastic and he couldn’t be happier and he eases the guilt about his dishonesty with the discernible relief they show when he tells them how much he loves his new home and how well he’s recovering from the injury. 

At least his departure from Dortmund might finally give them some peace, allow for the strained lines around his dad’s eyes to disappear and for his mom to smile again. Once his mother tentatively asks about Marco and the other guys back in Dortmund and Mario slaps on a bright smile and lies straight through his teeth, telling them he’s still in touch with most of them. 

In reality, he hasn’t exchanged more than a couple of texts, mostly with Mats and Nuri. As for Marco…on most days Mario tries not to think of him, which means that he thinks of him nearly constantly. He texted his best friend as promised once he got to Munich and Marco wrote back immediately, but after that Mario didn’t really know how to go on, unsure about what to talk about. 

In the first few days he had the excuse of having to settle in and find his way around, but by now that just doesn’t fly anymore and he still keeps putting it off, opening a text message at least two times a day and just staring at the screen before tossing his phone away. Mario can’t lie to Marco the way he does to his parents. Even if he wanted to, his best friend would see right through it. So what is he supposed to tell him? That he left Dortmund for an empty flat and feeling like a stranger at the club he joined? He can’t expect Marco to be the one to support him through this, not after everything he’s already done for Mario. 

Their last exchange was more than a week ago and Mario isn’t sure he’s ever gone this long without talking to Marco before. He misses him more than everything else put together and not even the reasonable part of him that knows limited contact might be the thing he needs to finally move on is helping with that. Marco’s stolen hoodie is one of the few things he took out of his boxes and he sleeps in it every single night, ignoring the voice in his head that calls him pathetic for doing so. The one that also points out that Marco hasn’t tried to contact him either. 

The one thing that actually helps alleviate the growing panic inside of him, the acid taste of fear about having made a mistake eating away at his stomach, is Munich itself. Mario loves the city. He started taking long walks around his neighborhood late in the night, something the physical therapists suggested to get his system going slowly. It’s now the part of the day he looks forward to the most and he’s working his way through the city slowly, parking his car in a far off neighborhood and just walking around until he gets tired enough to turn back around. 

Munich is so different from Dortmund and though Mario loves his hometown, this city speaks to him in a way he can’t entirely explain, soothing an ache he didn’t even know was there. He loves the greenery everywhere, the Oldtown with its churches and parks and the Isar’s presence everywhere. He goes to Viktualienmarkt on Thursdays and visits the Toy Museum just for the hell of it, glancing up at the balcony above Marienplatz hopefully when he makes his way back to the subway. If everything goes well, he’ll have a Bundesliga title to celebrate up there next summer. 

The walks are the only time Mario actually relaxes, his head clear of the nagging doubts, if only for a couple of hours. He even manages to mostly not think of Marco, though sometimes he sees something that makes him reach for his phone instinctively to snap a picture for his best friend, before he remembers that he and Marco don’t really do that anymore. 

*

The day Mario realizes that he isn’t the only one whose life is undergoing changes is the same day he meets Thiago for the first time. He’s just arrived at Säbener and doesn’t even look up when walking into the changing rooms, absentmindedly checking his twitter feed on his phone. Which means that he only notices he’s not alone when he walks straight into someone’s naked chest, nearly losing his footing in the process, if the guy didn’t reach out to steady him. 

“Whoa, sorry, I-“ Mario blinks, suddenly aware that he’s wrapped in some strangers arms. A very much naked stranger. Well. Wearing a towel, but Mario can still see way more than he’s comfortable with, especially since the guy is smoking hot.

It’s not like Mario isn’t used to sharing a locker room with hot guys, but he usually has time to prepare. At Munich, he’s been the only one using the changing rooms so far and he’s embarrassed to find that he’s flustered, actually blushing as the guy regards him curiously, warm hands still wrapped around Mario’s biceps. Then, to Mario’s relief, he lets go and offers his hand, a smile curving his lips as Mario takes it. 

“Thiago,” the stranger says and Mario feels like an idiot for not recognizing him. Jesus, the guy must think he’s a complete tool. 

“Mario,” he replies belatedly, wincing internally. “Sorry, I was just surprised to see anyone in here. So far it’s only been me.” 

Thiago nods, like Mario’s idiocy is entirely understandable instead of embarrassing. “I arrived yesterday,” he explains, his voice deep and thickly accented. “The doctors want me to be treated here.” 

“Same,” Mario says, pointing to his leg with an awkward gesture. 

“I saw,” Thiago says, glancing down as well. “Madrid, yes? Shame you couldn’t play the final. You were fantastic.” 

“Oh,” Mario manages, taken off guard and flushing in the face of Thiago’s open admiration. “Thanks. You guys were great as well.” 

“Not as great as Bayern,” Thiago says and smiles again, like a semifinal loss in the Champion’s League is nothing to mourn over. 

“Well, we’re here now.” Mario wonders if he’s always sounded like this much of a jackass, but Thiago just laughs, motioning towards the door that leads into the gym and treating rooms. 

“I’ll see you in there, yeah?”

“Sure,” Mario says and breathes a sigh of relief once Thiago disappears into the showers. He gets changed in record time and by the time he sees Thiago again more than half hour later, he’s managed to compose himself. They don’t see much of each other during the day, their physical therapy having them work out in different parts of the building, but Thiago gives him a smile each time they pass each other in the hallway, making Mario hope that he maybe didn’t make as much of a bad first impression as he originally thought. 

It’s nearly six when he makes his way back to the changing rooms and takes a look at his phone after showering. The picture is one of the first in his twitter feed, something that Moritz posted and tagged some of their friends in. It’s Marco, Moritz and a guy Mario has never seen before, with a big grin and a haircut that rivals Marco’s in its extravagance. They’re all grinning into the camera like idiots and the caption tells Mario what he suspected: the guy he doesn’t know is the new striker. Aubamijen or something. 

It’s completely ridiculous, Mario knows. The surge of hot, bitter jealousy is unjustified and petty. He _wants_ Marco to be happy. He wants him to make new friends, even if it’s with people Mario doesn’t know, people he won’t ever be able to know, people who wear his former club’s colors now. But it’s not just that. 

The picture is like a tiny window into Marco’s life and Mario is suddenly painfully aware that he has no idea what’s going on with his best friend for what is probably the first time in years. He doesn’t know where this picture was taken or what Marco was doing, has no idea what he thinks about his team’s latest addition. The realization that their growing apart has already set in after only three weeks of Mario being gone is like a sledgehammer to the chest and he sits down on one of the benches heavily, burying his face in his hands. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting like that when a low cough alerts him to the fact that he’s not on his own anymore. Mario contemplates simply pretending he didn’t hear for a moment. He really is set on making a complete idiot of himself today. Thiago’s gaze is concerned when Mario finally lets his hands fall away and looks at him, trying to pretend his future teammate didn’t just see him teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. 

“Are you okay?” Thiago asks in his softly accented voice and Mario nods quickly, wiping at his face in an effort to make himself presentable. 

“Yeah. Just miss home sometimes, you know?” It’s not a complete lie, but Mario still feels like an asshole when Thiago’s face takes on a sympathetic expression. 

“I know. I’ve barely been away and I miss it already.”

They share a look of commiseration and understanding. Thiago is kind enough not to make any further remarks after that and they pack up their stuff in silence, leaving the training center together. Thiago insists on them exchanging numbers and calls out an easy “See you tomorrow.” when they part ways in the parking garage. Mario gazes after him for a moment, the thought that he’s probably made a new friend a tiny spark of hope in his chest. 

He and Thiago develop a routine in the next couple of days, doing their PT and scheduling their lunch break together. They don’t talk much, but it’s nice having someone to share meals with, a comfortable silence around them as they eat and work out next to each other. But even with the distraction of finally have someone to hang out with, Mario can’t keep himself from thinking of Marco even more than before.

His daily perusal of news sites takes a new turn as he obsessively checks for pictures of Borussia’s training sessions, pictures people published on Instagram and twitter when meeting the players. It doesn’t even occur to him that he’s basically stalking his best friend instead of just talking to him at first, but once he does, the sinking feeling of humiliation isn’t even a novelty anymore. Mario gave up on dignity a long time ago when it came to Marco. 

That night he gives up any pretense of not thinking of his best friend as he slicks himself in the shower, sliding his own fingers into his ass and groaning at the feel of it. Mario has months’ worth of sexual fantasy material and it’s not hard for him to imagine what Marco might do to him if he were in here, how he’d tease and drive Mario to the point of begging for it. He comes hard with the phantom feel of Marco’s body pressing him into the shower wall, biting down on the back of his neck. 

Afterwards, the feeling of shame and loneliness fills him like a rush of cold water and it makes him shiver, even with the humid late night summer air filling the apartment, all the windows thrown open to get a breeze going. Only when he wraps himself into Marco’s hoodie does the trembling stop and Mario pulls it up over his nose, tries to imagine that he can still smell Marco in the fabric. It’s nonsense of course, he’s worn it too much at this point for it to smell of anything but his own shampoo and aftershave, but he falls asleep anyway, the hood strings wrapped around his fingers almost feeling like someone is holding his hand.  
*

Mario’s new team gets back to Munich on a Wednesday and he can hear them long before he makes his way into the changing rooms, the quietness he’s come to expect from this part of the training center replaced by loud laughter and voices floating down the hallway. He swallows down the awkward feeling of being the new kid at school as he steps into the room, smiling to mask his nervousness. Toni spots him immediately and lets out a loud whoop that has everyone else turning their head as well and before Mario knows what’s happening he’s surrounded by the guys from the National Team, Thomas grabbing him before anyone else gets a chance. 

“Finally the right jersey!” he shouts, lifting Mario off the ground. “You look stunning in red, _Schatzi_.” 

“Jesus Christ, Thomas,” Basti groans. “Be careful with him, he’s still injured.” 

“He’s fine,” Thomas dismisses him, trying to swing Mario in a circle and failing rather spectacularly. Manu keeps them from both falling over with an expression that is part amusement and weariness at Thomas’ antics. 

“Just put him down, Mülli. If you break his other leg, Pep will have your head.” 

“Pep loves me,” Thomas says with a sniff, but he finally relents and loosens his grip on Mario. “Seriously though, good to have you here, man.” 

“Thanks,” Mario says, his smile unforced for what feels like the first time in weeks. He’s missed this more than he could even put into words, the easy camaraderie and banter and the entire atmosphere so familiar that Säbener feels like home all of a sudden. 

The other guys practice a bit more restraint than Thomas when greeting him, but everyone seems happy to see him, Philipp making introductions after the National Team guys are through ruffling his hair and getting in their welcome hugs. Mario knows nearly all of the other guys of course, has played against them more than once, but it’s still surreal to be in the same locker room and when Philipp takes him over to Arjen, Mario can’t really hide that he’s a little star struck.

He’s played with other great footballers before, but at BVB so many of them were nearly the same age, Kloppo more than once calling them his kindergarten. And this is _Arjen Robben_ for crying out loud. He greets Mario easily, clapping his shoulder and telling him he’s glad they’re playing together, which is just a whole different level of insane.  
He realizes he’s not doing a very good job of hiding his fanboy moment when Thomas appears like a jack-in-the-box from hell behind them. “Don’t worry, Mario, the first time Manu met Olli on the grounds he nearly wet himself. You’ll learn how to behave when the legends are around all the time.”

Mario wants to kill him, but Arjen just rolls his eyes, tossing a towel at Thomas’ head. “Shut you trash mouth, Müller. I remember when you were a tiny little 20-year-old and in the squad the first time. You didn’t even talk until a week later.” 

“Lies,” Thomas says, but he’s laughing and Arjen winks at Mario, who feels relieved and embarrassed at the same time. 

“How’s your thigh doing?” 

“Better,” Mario says, unable to hide the dismayed expression on his face at the mention of his injury. Arjen smiles when he sees it. 

“Don’t worry about it so much. The doctors here are excellent and you’ll be back on the pitch in no time.” 

“Yeah. I just…feel kind of useless right now,” Mario admits quietly, a bit surprised at his own boldness. 

“I know. Trust me, I know.” Arjen puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes once. “But it’ll pass.” 

Mario feels reassured in spite of himself and after he finishes his PT that day, he even gets out onto the terrace to watch the guys train for a bit, joining Thiago on one of the benches in the sun. When he returns to the locker room, he finds that someone has smeared the strap of his gym bag with toothpaste and he’s still busy cleaning it off bewilderedly when he hears someone chuckle behind him. 

He turns to find a dark-skinned guy with a huge grin standing there. “That’s Franck’s idea of welcoming you to the team. Be on the lookout for buckets of water being poured onto you as you leave the building in the next couple of days.” 

Mario can’t help but laugh. “I’ll try.” 

“David,” the guy says and Mario likes him immediately when he offers his hand for a fist bump instead of a handshake. “Good to finally meet you.” 

“You, too,” Mario says. “You’re not training with the others?”

“Pulled muscle,” David explains. “But I’ll be fine soon. Listen, some of us are going out on the weekend, little welcome-back-to-Munich thing. You want to come?” 

“Sure,” Mario says and to his surprise find that he even means it. “That would be great.” 

When he gets back to his flat that night and actually finds that he’s looking forward to going back to Säbener tomorrow, the happiness he feels is laced with a small sting at the realization that he’s starting to let go of Dortmund, if only the football part of it. 

*

His reluctance to furnish his flat is brought to an end when he comes home two days later to find Ann-Kathrin ordering around six movers, wearing a stunning pair of overalls and a snapback. Mario stands frozen in the doorway for a couple of seconds, taking in the fact that his living room has stuff in it all of a sudden, couch, dining table and chairs making in look a lot smaller than when the only thing in here was an armchair. 

“What...” Mario can’t even finish the sentence, as one of the movers urges him out of the way, carrying a huge box that can only contain a flat screen judging by its sheer size. “What the hell is going on? Aren’t you supposed to be in Düsseldorf?”

“I took a couple of days of,” Ann-Kathrin says, waving the TV guy over. “Right here, against this wall, please.” 

“That is not an explanation!” Mario cries. “What the hell is going on?” 

She rolls her eyes, clearly put out at Mario needing to have this explained to him. “I got tired of you dragging your feet on this. You were living like a cave person.” 

“I was not,” Mario says, offended. “The very description of the term cave person requires there to be a cave. I have four walls and running water, thank you very much.” 

“And now you have furniture as well,” Ann-Kathrin says drily. “Congratulations, welcome to the civilized way of living. If you unpack all of your crap, this place might even start to look like an actual apartment instead of some hobo’s lair.”

She does have a point, but Mario really doesn’t want to admit that right now. “How did you even get in here? And where is all this stuff coming from?” 

“Spare key, online ordering, your credit card,” she counts off, moving out of the way as one of the movers carries by a couple of lamps. She doesn’t look the least bit fazed at Mario’s incredulity. 

He takes a deep breath, wondering if this is what having an aneurysm feels like. “You can’t just order me furniture! I wanted to do this with Fabian and besides, what if I don’t like what you picked out?” 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Take a look around. It’s all incredibly pretentious and expensive; it looks like a spaceship threw up in here. Of course you were going to like it.”

Mario stares at her helplessly. “I hate you so much right now.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, darling,” Ann-Kathrin says, patting his head indulgingly. “At least now we won’t find your mummified body being eaten by cats in here.” 

*

Four hours later the movers have gone and they’re sitting on the balcony, watching the sun set over Munich’s skyline. Ann-Kathrin has her booted feet propped up on the railing and they’re both nursing beers Mario bought at the tiny market around the corner. He feels a bit sheepish now that he’s had time to calm down and survey what she did to his flat. 

The movers did an incredible job putting everything up and together and everything Ann picked out does look like something he could have bought for himself, the huge couch and soft chairs being a particular favorite. She’s refrained from rubbing it in his face yet and for that alone, Mario owes her his thanks. He nudges her boot with his own foot until she glances over, soft hair falling over her shoulders and framing her face perfectly. 

“So, I was an idiot earlier,” he begins and she snorts, giving him a fond look. 

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

“I’m sorry, you were right. The stuff does look great.” He smiles, bumping their shoulders together. “Thank you. For doing this and also for not yelling at me when I was being an asshole.” 

Ann shrugs. “I can’t resist a remodeling project, you know that. And I look very cute in overalls.” 

Mario nods solemnly. “That you do.” 

“Also, I might have bought that Prada dress I was telling you about with your credit card.” 

“Take it as payment,” Mario says, offering his bottle for Ann to clink hers against. “To you being an awesome friend.”

She looks at him in surprise for a moment, then smiles as she raises the bottle to her mouth. “I’ll drink to that.” 

*

By the time the weekend rolls around, Mario has actually managed to unpack most of his boxes, which allows him to get dressed for their night out in something that isn’t his Bayern kit. Thanks to Ann he can even check out his reflection in the big hallway mirror before he leaves the apartment, critically surveying his jeans and dark blue button down and running a hand through his hair one last time. David is waiting for him when he gets down, leaning against his car and grinning when he sees Mario emerge from his building. 

“Right on time. Gotta love you Germans. Every time I pick up Franck I have to wait around half an hour while he tries to find pants to put on.” 

“Sorry, man,” Mario says, matching David’s easy tone. “But I’m really just lulling you into a false sense of security until we’re good enough friends for me to make you wait all the time.” 

David bursts out laughing, fistbumping Mario as he moves around to climb into his car. “Not bad, bro. Not bad at all.”

David is easy to talk to and Mario laughs more on the twenty minute drive to the club they’re meeting at than in the last couple of weeks put together. His teammate skillfully eases his Audi into a tight parking space and Mario whistles appreciatively, secretly thinking that it would have taken Marco twice that long, suppressing a wince right after. Why does everything always have to come back to Marco? 

They walk through a maze of alleys, the late night air a nice reprieve from the earlier heat. It’s not long until Mario spots the entrance to the club and his skin begins to tighten as they approach it, an uneasy prickle running down his back as he takes in the crowd in front of the doors. He doesn’t know what it is exactly that’s throwing him off at first, everything seeming perfectly familiar, just like the clubs he used to visit in Dortmund. Until it hits him. 

It’s _exactly_ like the clubs he used to visit in Dortmund. The crowd in front is almost exclusively male and even at this distance, Mario can see two of the guys standing in line kissing, waiting for the bouncer to let them pass. David brought him to a _gay bar_. He freezes, trailing off in the middle of the sentence he was about to utter and David turns towards him with a questioning look on his face. 

“Something the matter?” 

Every instinct Mario has ever cultivated is screaming at him to run, to just turn and leave and find some excuse later, because he has no idea how to handle this situation. In the end it is sheer shock that keeps him rooted to the spot, caught like a deer in headlights and unable to move even as his entire system is going into flight mode. 

“Why did you bring me here?” It’s barely more than a whisper, but David must have heard him perfectly, because he immediately steps closer, hesitantly reaching out to touch Mario’s arm. 

“Dude, are you okay? You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

“I’m fine,” Mario lies, resisting the urge to shake David’s hand off his arm. “Why would you bring me here?” 

He sounds almost desperate and something in David’s face changes as it takes on an alarmed expression. “Oh, my God. Are you not..? Thiago said-“ 

“Thiago?” Mario croaks and now he really does feel close to fainting, the thought of his secret being something his teammates openly talk about pushing him over the edge. He barely registers that David leads him off into a side alley, making him sit on a concrete doorstep and pushing his head between his knees, telling him to breathe. There’s only one word running through his mind over and over again, tightening his throat and chest until he thinks he won’t be able to draw another breath. _Caught._

David is still talking, now not just repeating his litany of telling Mario to breathe, but a frantic babble that only slowly makes its way through the cottony haze in Mario’s head. “Dude, holy shit, I’m so sorry. Thiago made it seem like- well, it doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. _Fuck._ Do you want to go back to the car? We can just hang out at my place, watch some TV. I have this awesome new sounds system, it’s gonna blow your mind.” 

Mario shakes his head, trying to clear it and David falls silent, clearly waiting for him to talk. Jesus. He has to pull himself together. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, swallowing thickly to get rid of the acid taste of bile in his throat. “I just-“ 

“You don’t have to explain,” David says quickly. “I totally get it, over the line. Should have asked first. I kind of forget sometimes, because we come here so often.” 

Mario stares at him. “You do?” 

“Well, yeah, we- oh. Oh my God. Fuck, I’m such a jackass. Uhm, I’m bi. I probably should have lead with that.” 

He says it so casually, like outing oneself to a teammate is a completely normal thing to do. Mario gapes at him, can’t really help it. His voice is an octave higher than usual when he speaks again.

“You’re-” He’s probably had more inspired conversational moments, but his mind is like a blank slate right now, every expectation and belief he held about being a gay footballer just wiped away in the face of David’s easy admittance of his sexual preferences. 

“Yeah.” David’s eyes are concerned as he crouches in front of Mario, his Austrian accent even thicker than usual. “Sorry for just assuming about you, never a great move to do that.” 

“No,” Mario says, not quite believing what he’s about to do. “I, you weren’t- I am. I just, don’t tell people, usually.” 

David smiles, like Mario’s world hasn’t just shifted on its axis, thrown him into new territory he doesn’t know how to navigate. “That’s cool. I really didn’t mean to put you out, man. If you don’t want anyone to know, that’s your business. I just told Thiago we were going out and he mentioned you might want to come.”

“How did he-“ Mario stops, remembering his very first meeting with Thiago, his rather obvious flustered reaction at his teammates’ state of undress. He groans, burying his face in his hands. 

“Why am I sensing there’s a great story there?” David teases and Mario glares at him through his fingers, the entire situation so surreal he feels close to laughing himself. 

“I might have accidentally hit on him. While he was only wearing a towel.” 

David pauses, like he’s imagining it and then shrugs. “If it makes you feel any better, he thinks you have a great ass.” 

“What?” Mario yelps and David starts to laugh, grabbing Mario’s knee to keep upright as the movement makes him lose his balance. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but he does! Like a ripe plum were his exact words.” 

Mario tries to kick him, but he’s so stunned his movement is slower than usual and David evades his foot easily. “So, what do you say? You wanna come to the club? That other offer still stands by the way. We can just hang out at my place instead.” 

Mario hesitates, his anxiety returning full-force as he tries to process what David is offering here. 

“Who are we meeting at the club?” 

“Thiago, Jérôme, Toni and Manu,” David counts off and Mario boggles at him. 

“They’re all-“ 

“No,” David interrupts him and Mario feels relieved, because seriously, what the fuck. Jérôme and Toni have kids, for crying out loud. “Thiago is like me, at least that’s the vibe I got from him so far. And Manu…well, let’s just say that he likes to enjoy himself. Toni and Jérôme just come along, because they won’t get hit on by girls and that flies a lot better with their significant others.” 

Mario feels overrun by this information and the easy grin David offers it with. He basically just told Mario that three of his teammates aren’t straight. And that some of their other teammates know about it. Which is. Incredible, really. 

“Does everyone know? About you, I mean?” 

“God, no,” David laughs. “I don’t go around advertising that shit. But some of the guys on the team know, yeah.”

“And…they’re okay with it?” Mario wishes he sounded less incredulous. 

“Never heard differently,” David shrugs. “I tell the people I’m close to and that’s it. You can trust them, you know? They won’t tell anyone if you ask them to keep it to themselves.” 

Mario nods mutely, struggling to grasp what he’s being told right now. It seems too good to be true, really. It’s not that he thought he was the only professional gay footballer. He just always assumed that everyone else handled it the same way he did, keeping it entirely under wraps. Telling teammates was always out of the question for him. He didn’t even tell Marco of his own accord. 

But now two of his teammates here know. He thinks about asking David and Thiago not to tell any of the others, to go back home and forget all about this night, pretend it never happened. It’s the safe option, the sane option, the one that’s in line with everything he’s ever practiced. He can just go back to what he knows, hide what he is from everyone, the same way he did in Dortmund. To his own shock, the idea feels stifling instead of liberating. 

Mario takes a deep breath, gathering his courage for what he’s about to say. “Think we missed the Happy Hour?” 

David regards him carefully, a smile starting to spread on his face. “I think they’ll have some drinks left for us. You sure?”

“No,” Mario admits, taking David’s hand and letting himself be pulled to his feet. The rush of giddiness flooding through him is new and entirely unexpected. “Let’s go anyway.” 

*

Two hours later Mario still can’t shake the feeling he’s in a dream as he watches Thiago make out with some guy he dragged to their table from the dance floor, nearly crawling into his lap in the process. Next to Mario, Toni makes an exaggerated gagging noise and throws a balled up napkin at them as Jérôme and David roar with laughter. 

“You guys look like you’re inspecting each other’s tonsils,” Toni complains and Thiago takes one hand off the guy’s face to raise his middle finger at him, not interrupting the kiss. Mario almost snorts his beer up his nose at that and Jérôme reaches over to pound him on the back lazily, Toni shoving him from the other side at the same time.

“Oh, c’mon, that is just gross,” Toni says. “Please tell me you’re with me on this, Mario, these guys are all PDA whores.” 

“I’m not a PDA whore,” David says indignantly. “I don’t get paid for making out in public. If anything, I’m a PDA _slut_.” He and Jérôme erupt into laughter again and Toni sighs, leaning in to mutter conspiratorially to Mario. “I’m so glad you’re here, dude. Those two are always clucking together, I need backup.” 

“Stop corrupting him, Toni,” Jérôme cries, still laughing. “It’s his first time at a gay club, he doesn’t need you harshing his vibe.” 

Mario snorts at that, can’t help it. “Please. This is so not my first time.” 

“Ohhhh,” David says, leaning over the table eagerly. “Now we’re getting somewhere interesting. Regale us with tales of your exploits, young squire!” He raises his drink, hiccupping, and Jérôme rolls his eyes, using one hand to make sure David doesn’t spill anything on him. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, this one here is our lightweight.” 

“Hey! That is so not-“ 

“Will you pipe down for once,” Toni interrupts David, swatting at him with one of the straws on the table. “Seriously, Mario, spill. Tell us about all the broken hearts you left behind in Dortmund.” 

That one hits a little close to home, even if the broken heart in question is Mario’s. He still manages to smile though, the complete levity with which his teammates are treating the whole situation going a long way to make Mario feel good about tonight, even when he’s being reminded of Marco. 

“I need to be a lot drunker for that,” he says, which immediately prompts Toni to bodily shove him out of the booth as David and Jérôme start their deranged cackling again. 

“Then what are you waiting for? Get us another round!” 

Mario thumps Toni hard on the shoulder before he goes, but ultimately complies as he makes his way towards the bar, edging around the corners of the tightly packed dance floor. The crowd is even thicker at the bar, everyone shoving ahead to get their orders in quicker. It’s really not the perfect job for a small person, Mario thinks as he tries to gain the bartender’s attention, standing on his toes to glance over another guy’s shoulder.

He probably would have had to wait for another half hour, if someone hadn’t suddenly slipped past him, shouldering a spot in front of him free and stepping aside to let Mario through. He does so quickly, only glancing up when he’s already pressed against the edge of the bar, people shoving in from behind.

“Thanks,” he says to his savior, only to startle when the guy gives him a mischievous grin in return.

“I see fourteen years weren’t enough time to let you grow a little, Götze.” 

Mario blinks in surprise. There’s an almost anticipatory shiver running down his back as he takes a closer look at the guy’s face and all of a sudden the room is fading around him and he’s back in a treehouse, lips still tingling from his very first kiss, the sound of rustling leaves in his ears as he stares into deep blue eyes. The very same eyes looking back at him now. Mario’s mouth falls open in shock, his voice nearly gone when he gets out the name. 

“Leon?” 

~

**Author's Note:**

> I would be so happy if you took the time to leave feedback in the form of kudos and/or comments. It's really the only currency a fanfiction writer has and it's such a push when the story isn't moving forward on its own <3


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